


I didn't know I was broken 'til I wanted to change

by comedy-witch (calamaris)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (dr phil voice at Tommy) prepare for Pain, (poorly), Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Chaptered, Coping, Drama, F/M, Fist Fights, Flirting, Getting to Know Each Other, Humor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trust Issues, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23782435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calamaris/pseuds/comedy-witch
Summary: Steve stands his ground against Tommy and Carol. When luck doesn't look to be on his side, you show up instead. And as a friendship blooms, Steve finds it harder and harder to keep the truth of Hawkins from you. But he tries – oh he tries.
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader
Comments: 20
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

You intended only to go to the convenience store to get a soda – that’s what you told yourself. Even when local asshole Tommy Hagan stepped in and out with his own purchase, you browsed the aisles with the intent of taking all the time in the world, maybe treat yourself with a little something extra.

But then you got to the register and rifle around in your pockets for a few crumpled bills, your gaze meandering over to the scene in front of the store. And Tommy has a bloodied Steve Harrington held up by the collar of his shirt.

“I’ll be right back,” you say to the cashier, not bothering to listen for a response before you’re opening the front door.

“—you couldn’t take Jonathan Byers so I wouldn’t recommend that.” you hear Tommy murmur before you step up and grab him by the corner of his jacket, wrenching him off Steve with your own body weight and the gift that is gravity. Amidst the confusion, Tommy’s reaction to your interference is automatic. Like a slingshot, Tommy pulls back against you just as hard, ricocheting you back at him – and your fist directly at his face.

Now, you’re not normally one to get into fights. But you’re also not Switzerland.

And when Tommy Hagan looks like he’s about to beat someone up who has obviously _already_ been beaten up, well, it just doesn’t sit well with you. So you knock him to the pavement – because he damn well deserves it.

You can hear Carol in the background, and then you can feel her grabbing at you in outrage. Tommy is still reeling from the sudden punch, and you use that time to shove back at Carol, pushing her against Tommy’s car.

“Carol Perkins, do _not_ fuck with me. I mean it.” you warn, adrenaline still hot in your blood.

“What the _fuck_ is the matter with you? Psycho!” she spits out.

“Just get in the car.” and your voice must come out more menacing than you thought because, she gives you a seething look before she complies, opening the passenger door of Tommy’s car.

At the same time, Tommy has recovered and gotten back up, trying to grab you from behind. Surprisingly, Steve grapples with him first, shoving him away from you and Carol’s open door. You kick at her legs and practically close the door on her nose, temporarily securing her inside the vehicle before going back to help Steve.

Tommy has managed to gain the upper hand ( _again, really?_ ) so you snag his elbow with no success, getting an elbow to the nose for your trouble. You can’t stop fighting to _feel_ pain so you catch Tommy’s wrist instead, forcing him to turn away from Steve and back to his own car. You push him until he’s lying on the seam between the backseats and the front seats, effectively blocking Carol from exiting the car. There’s a muffled noise of Carol’s indignation in the window but you pay her no mind.

“Go home, Tommy.” you say, breath heaving despite how short the fight felt. Something wet dribbles down from your nose and onto your lip.

“You should’ve minded your own business you _bitch!”_ Tommy yells.

“You really want to call me names! _Now?”_ you ask, laughing in exasperation. You lift Tommy’s wrist further up his back until his elbow protests the angle and he yelps in pain.

“Okay—okay _fine!_ Jesus _Christ_ I wasn’t gonna do anything to the guy, alright? Fucking _let me go!”_

“When I let go you’re gonna get in the car and _drive._ You hear me?”

“Yes – yeah! Whatever, you crazy bitch!”

So you let him go, and Tommy – ever an obedient sack of shit – rounds the front of his car and gets into the driver’s seat. You can see Carol shouting at him from the passenger seat even as they exit the parking lot, and it’s only when their license plate becomes illegible that you realize your nose has been dribbling blood for the past five minutes.

“Oh, god _dammit—”_ you turn around in your panic, patting your own pockets for tissue.

“Here,” Steve says and you turn to him just as he tugs at the sleeve of his jacket, offering it to you.

“You want to hold your arm out while I press my nose to your sleeve?” you ask, disbelief colored only by the slight tinge of humor in your voice.

Steve seems to think for a moment, and then begins pulling the whole jacket off, bundling it into a more manageable shape. “I don’t really have anything else—”

You wave one of your hands in front of you, dismissing it, “No it’s fine, I was joking, put your jacket back on.”

“Hey, look, I know it won’t feel like satin but I will personally feel like shit if I just watch you stand there with a bleeding nose.”

You hesitate, looking up at him for more confirmation and he nods encouragingly before you take it from his hand. It feels like some sort of heavy-duty cotton, and you curl your hand under a fold of the fabric, creating a small patch to press under your nose.

“Thanks.” you offer and Steve just gives a polite smile back.

“I should be saying thanks.”

You shrug your shoulders. “Tommy’s always been a piece of shit.”

Steve lets out a soft laugh, though it has an undertone of misery. “I noticed. And sorry about your nose.”

“I got away with just a bloody nose, I consider that lucky.” you pull the jacket away from your face and gingerly touch the bridge of your nose, even as Steve grits his teeth while he watches. “Not broken.” you supply. Still, you bundle the jacket up again and press it to your nose when you feel the telltale trickle of blood again.

“Oh no way, blood would’ve been gushing from your face if it was broken.”

“Speaking from experience?” you muse. Steve puts his hands in his pockets, kicking a loose stone on the pavement, but doesn’t answer. He looks up at you for only a moment to give you a brief smile, and then focuses back on his feet.

“That isn’t from Tommy though, is it?” you ask.

“Nah, courtesy of Jonathan Byers.” he says, taking a hand out of his pocket and gesturing at his own face with flourish.

“Hm,” you muse, “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Steve looks at you, “What do you mean?” his voice sounds strained.

“I mean it’s always the quiet ones that hit hardest.” you finish, and when you look back at him, you get the strongest feeling that it wasn’t what Steve thought you were going to say. His shoulders sag in relief, in _realization_ and he laughs.

Steve points at you while squinting, clearly trying to remember something. “Did we have class together?”

You shake your head. “I’m a junior.”

He clicks his tongue, “Ah, so we do go to school together.”

You look around, and raise an arm to gesture around you, “What other school would I go to?”

“Touché.”

You pull the jacket away from your face and sniff a few times. Feeling confident the bleeding has stopped, you bundle up the area that looks like a crime scene and fold the cleaner fabric overtop, handing it back to Steve.

“Thanks for the tissue.” you joke, and Steve smiles again, nodding once.

“Anytime.” he pauses, “Wait, did you walk here? I can drive you home if you want.”

“Oh, no, that’s alright.” you’re surprised he’d offer. It is a little worrisome if Tommy comes back—

“I just don’t want Tommy to change his mind and turn around.” Steve finishes your thought for you, and you blink in surprise.

“That would…actually be great, Steve. Thanks.” you smile. He smiles back, and for a moment you forget the pain in your face and the ache in your knuckles. For a second high school doesn’t matter anymore, and the moment is blessedly _normal._

You take a step back from him and walk back to the door of the building.

“Wait, where are you going?” Steve asks.

You open the door and look at him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “To get a soda.”


	2. And I miss the days of a life still permanent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is starting to think you’re a fight magnet, perpetually drawn to the threat of a bloody nose. You’re starting to think you may really like hanging out with him.

“Who would be walking home at this time of night?” Dustin asks.

“What?” Steve had been so occupied by Dustin’s retelling of the events at the Snow Ball, he’d been driving on auto-pilot.

And then he notices it too – a figure walking toward them, down the street with a bike at their side. Steve slows down the car, taking in your appearance. It’s _you_ from all those months ago – the junior who got in a fist fight with Tommy Hagan.

“You know that girl?” Dustin asks, “Wait, what’s on her…” Dustin squints, trailing off, and then his eyes widen. “Steve that’s– ”

“Blood.” Steve finishes. He slows down the car, fear gripping him. It’s only been a month – a month since they set the tunnels ablaze. But the alarms in his head are set off instantaneously, worry digging into the pit of his stomach.

Steve parks his car in a downtown roadside spot and gets out. You look up from where you had your gaze down on the pavement and stop walking.

“Hey there.” he says and you squint, stepping a bit closer.

“Hi,” you reply, cautiously. Steve walks over onto the sidewalk and gets under the light of the street lamp. You recognize him immediately, the guarded look on your face falling almost instantly.

“ _Steve,_ jesus, you scared me.” you put a hand to your chest, taking in a big breath of air.

“ _I_ scared _you_?” he asks.

“You can’t just walk up to a girl on a street like that, I almost threw my bike at you.” you walk a bit closer so you’re illuminated by the streetlight too.

He takes a minute to realize what it must have looked like to you, “Oh, sorry I didn’t–” he trails off when he looks down at your outfit. There’s even more blood than he initially thought. There’s a spattering near the base of your neck, and then down the front of your dress. “Oh my _god,_ what the hell happened?”

“Oh,” you peer down at yourself and then back up at him. “Remember when we beat up Tommy—”

“ _You_ beat up Tommy,” Steve corrects.

You smile, “ _I_ beat up Tommy,” you amend, “…and you told me my nose couldn’t possibly be broken because it’d be gushing blood,”

Steve nods in encouragement, waiting for you to finish the story.

“Right – well, I found out what that looks like.”

He looks alarmed for a second, taking a step forward, obviously trying to get a better look at the state of your nose but you shake your head.

“Not mine.” you lift up your fist and it’s bloodied as well, bruises already blooming against the skin of your knuckles, “My ex-boyfriend’s.” you correct.

Steve hardly has a moment to digest this information before Dustin has his head poked out the passenger window, “That’s _awesome!”_

“ _Dude,_ ” Steve puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head at Dustin, “Put your seatbelt back on.”

Dustin grumbles, leaning back in his seat. Steve looks back to you and you look _exhausted._ Like this evening’s events are just hitting you now.

“You’re heading home, right?” he asks.

You nod, wiping at your eye.

“I can throw your bike in the back –” Steve starts to offer but you put up a hand.

“Don’t bother.” Your laugh comes out more like a nervous titter. You wipe your other eye, “Um…it’s my ex’s.”

“You broke his nose _and_ stole his bike?” Dustin’s head sticks out the window again, sounding absolutely elated. “Steve, let her _drive_!”

Steve fires back just as quickly. “Absolutely not – she’s not on my parent’s insurance.”

And _that_ you do laugh at. You laugh loud and honest, and Steve feels somewhat triumphant in the moment.

“Dustin hop in back, will you?” Steve asks and Dustin complies without question, before Steve walks over to the passenger side of his car and unlatches the door.

“Need a lift?” he asks.

You’re holding your arms protectively over your body, your ex’s bike leaning on your hip, and your voice comes out uneven when you respond, “Are you going to offer me a ride every time we bump into each other, Harrington?” you ask softly.

“What kind of person would I be if I didn’t?” he asks and you say nothing, but he watches your smile bloom, subtle and soft like the sunrise.

If you’d asked him hours ago what his plans were for the night he would’ve said nothing. Because something like this is too good to be planned – and one thing he’s learned about you is that you come back into his life at his lowest.

He hopes this time you can stick around just a little longer.

You push the bike down into the grass and step into the passenger’s side of Steve’s sedan. You start pulling on the seatbelt while Steve closes your door for you.

“Hi,” Dustin says, and you turn a bit in your seat to look at him.

“Hi,” you chuckle.

“I’m Dustin.”

“I’ve noticed.” you reply cheekily. Your eyes move down to his outfit, “I love your suit – what’s the occasion?”

Steve has crawled into his seat at this point, “Snow Ball.” he says as he snaps his seatbelt into place. “Seatbelt, Dustin.”

“I’m already wearing it, gramps.”

Steve grouses something about a Camaro and someone named Max but you can’t quite catch it. He starts back up the road, and clicks on the radio.

Steve was expecting Dustin to ask you all sorts of questions but he just looks out the window quietly. He glances at the clock on his dash and it’s nearly midnight, so he figures the kid is just running on low.

The only noises in the car are the steady hum of the engine and the soft beat of Radio Ga Ga.

“Do you…want to talk about what happened? I mean, I’m sorry to bring it up. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want,” he rambles on, “I just figured—”

“It’s okay,” you interrupt. You let out a sigh, “There’s not much to say, really. Vicki Carmichael happened.”

Steve’s eyes widen, though his gaze remains on the road, “Oh that’s –”

“Carol’s friend.” You supply and Steve’s brows knit together, frustration and sympathy warring in his expression.

“I’m sorry.”

You shrug, folding some of the fabric of your dress where the blood has dried and hardened, “You don’t have to apologize for it.”

Steve sighs, “Yeah but they were my friends once upon a time.”

You scoff good-naturedly, “It’s not like Carol told Vicki to sleep with my boyfriend because I beat up Tommy.” You glance back at Dustin, and see his intrigued expression. You realize how inappropriate the conversation is for someone his age, “Sorry Dustin.”

Dustin looks over the moon, enjoying the perks of being a bystander to such a dramatic retelling, “No no, don’t stop on my account.”

“Yeah, too late pal. We’re coming up on your house now.” Steve announces, pulling into a residential street.

“Aw man!” he grumbles while Steve pulls into the driveway. Dustin unhooks his seatbelt and gets out of the car. When he steps out, he leans over to your window, “Remember you’re covering for us tomorrow while we finish our campaign.” he says to Steve.

Steve is leaning a bit to your side to look at Dustin through the window, “Yeah I know you got the book for warrior or whatever.”

Dustin throws up his hands, “ _Barbarian,_ dude! Come on,” he hushes a bit when he glances at you “You’re embarrassing me.”

You bite back a laugh. 

Steve looks at you and leans back, pulling the stick into reverse. “Please roll up your window,” he says it like he’s begging for mercy.

Dustin points at him even while he starts to drive away, “I mean it, Steve!”

Steve pulls out of the driveway and back onto the main road and you’re _laughing._

His cheeks are ruddy with embarrassment, “You were not supposed to hear that.”

“Which part, exactly?” you laugh even harder.

“Dungeons and Dragons.” He grouses. He pulls onto main street and brakes at the stop sign.

“Oh don’t tell me Steve Harrington is _too cool_ for Gary Gygax.” you tease.

Steve’s mouth is agape when he looks at you, “I _cannot_ believe you _voluntarily_ remember his name. You stored that in your brain.”

You smile, looking out your window while the buildings whiz by, “It was either that or fractions, and my choice actually makes me _very_ fun at parties.”

Steve’s smile falters a little bit, remembering himself. Remembering the last party he went to was only last month – remembering –

“Steve?”

He clears his throat, “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry, I think I said something wrong. You went all quiet.” You say, softer than he’s heard you before.

“No it’s not that, I’ve just uh,” he falters because this is only really the second time you’ve spoken. He shouldn’t be telling you something so personal, he _knows_ that. But you’ve got an ease to you that he’s admittedly …pretty envious of. He _likes_ your company. “I just,” he swallows, “I just remembered something and it kind of – it’s just been hard.” He glances over, falters, “Nancy and I broke up.”

And Steve is certain you know her name – you know that he’s been with Nancy Wheeler for quite a while now. He watches the realization flit across your face, the information sinking in.

“Steve I’m really sorry.” Your voice is gentle. “That sucks.”

“Like I said, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he rambles, “It just hasn’t been that long and sometimes I remember,” he shakes his head, “and it feels like I’m being hit over the head with it or something. Like, I’m _over_ her but it still…”

He can see in his periphery, how your fingers flit over the tender skin of your own bruised knuckles, “Still hurts?” You offer and he nods.

The drive is quiet because Steve doesn’t know what to say. He’s over Nancy – he _knows_ he is. But then again, is he? And is he just fooling himself? And is all this just a mess he hasn’t really been coping with? And then he told you and now it must be so _awkward_ for you, _stupid stupid_ decision, he should’ve just kept his mouth shut –

“Want to get a burger?” you ask suddenly. Steve glances at you, and then back at the road.

“What?” He chuckles a little in disbelief. As if he isn’t sure he actually heard you.

“I’m hungry.” You say instead and Steve mulls it over before he smiles.

“Hm,” he nods. “Me too.”

Steve drives to the diner on the corner, _thankfully_ open late. You excuse yourself so you can wash your hands and hopefully some of the blood off. When you come back, you both order cheeseburger platters. You hum and haw before you ask for a strawberry milkshake.

“—and um,” you look at him when you notice his eyebrows are raised. “What?”

“I’ll have a milkshake too,” Steve says, looking up at the waitress. “Chocolate, please.”

She smiles while taking the menus, “Shouldn’t be too long.”

You both thank her in unison, though she eyes your dress before walking off.

“I really couldn’t get it all out, I think my dress is toast.” you look down at your appearance and the blood stain is incredibly obvious under the fluorescent lighting. “she must think I’m nuts.”

Steve smiles, “If the police show up, I am _not_ the accessory to your crime.”

You kick his sneaker playfully under the table, biting your cheek to stop from grinning. 

Your food arrives not long after.

The two of you pass the mustard and ketchup back and forth, and then you spend a long time in quiet companionship. Steve tries not to eat so late at night but the burger is good and the company is nice.

“Tell me what you’ve been up to.” you say suddenly. And Steve’s brain just freezes. How did this used to go – hanging out with people his age aside from his girlfriend?

Steve’s leg bounces up and down under the table. He slows down his chewing just to give himself more time to come up with an excuse. “Oh not much, really.” He struggles to find a topic that isn’t interdimensional monsters digging up a new interstate highway under Hawkins. Or his recent breakup. Both topics that don’t exactly inspire lighthearted conversation.

He finishes half his burger, “I don’t know,” Steve laughs. “I used to be good at this.”

You’re halfway through your own meal, “Making conversation?” you guess.

He shakes his head, picking at the fries on his plate, a mirthless smile on his face. “Talking about myself.”

You pause, putting your burger down in your plate. You watch him thoughtfully and it makes him nervous.

“I um,” he thinks it over. “I’ve been playing baseball.” he offers. It’s the closest thing he can come to the truth.

Your eyebrows raise, “Oh I always thought you were a basketball guy.” you say, and he hears you mention something about going to the batting cages sometime but Steve’s hearing goes kind of fuzzy.

Steve thinks of his senior year, he thinks of being up against Billy Hargrove on the court, he thinks of being on the floor of the Byers’ place, he thinks of the moment he lost consciousness –

Steve’s leg is bouncing up and down so much that he’s upsetting the glasses of water on the table. And then he realizes you’re staring at him with alarm. 

You reach across the table and hold onto his forearm. That, surprisingly, grounds him.

“Are you okay?” your voice is softer, more soothing. He wonders if he looking at you like a wounded animal.

He pulls his free hand through his hair, “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” He leans his elbow on the table, resting there for a moment.

You shake your head, your eyes still on him. “It’s okay.”

He’s never really felt this lost before.

And more than that – Steve feels frustrated. Frustrated that the things in his life have changed so rapidly that he can’t keep a decent conversation with someone because the everyday seems so mundane to what he’s seen. What he’s been through.

A month is a long time.

He looks to you.

A year is even longer.

“We don’t know each other very well, do we?” you smile sympathetically. “You’ve made my night so much better but I just keep upsetting you.”

“No,” Steve’s brows pull together like he’s trying to find the right words. “I like talking to you – I really do. It’s just weird how in a year I feel like I’ve gotten so much _baggage.”_ he laughs a little, despite himself, “And I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Just let me carry it,” you say and Steve can tell by your tone that it’s intended as a joke – to help alleviate this heaviness that’s fallen around the two of you. But it’s also honest in a way that makes him feel seen. Makes him feel wanted.

Steve follows your lead, trying for levity, “I guess I’d also… like to have a friend who isn’t uh, twelve.” he jokes.

You finally laugh, and the tension is lifted. You’re someone he wants to stick around not just because you protected him, but because you make him feel lighter. Like things may turn out alright.

“So I’ll be your token high school friend.”

“Is that so bad?” he asks – your last out.

“No,” you answer quicker than he’s expecting, expression soft. He likes how it looks. You steal one of his fries while he’s occupied and your smile turns lighthearted.

“Not bad at all.”


	3. I've trained myself to give up on the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You hang at the batting cages and Steve struggles to keep himself guarded against your friendship.

Another ball hits the net behind Steve.

“You told me you played _baseball,_ right?”

“Yeah yeah,” Steve grouses, pointedly looking away from you behind the batting cage’s fenced seated area.

He adjusts the metal bat’s grip in his hand, swinging it a few times and grumbling.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?” You ask, and he looks back at you. You have your fingers entwined through the metal fence, watching him curiously.

He debates whether he should bring it up, but you did ask. Frankly it isn’t a big reveal either, still keeping the monster hunting part of his life neatly tucked away.

The weight is all wrong, he’s used to heaviness of the wooden bat — aluminum is light and hollow. The sound of metal hitting something never used to bother him, but it’s undeniable that it does now. It brings back too much – of a junkyard with scrap metal, of monsters that unravel their jaws to snap and tear.

The metal bat doesn’t send the shock of the hit back into his palms, it doesn’t ground him.

“It’s a bad sound.” Steve settles on saying instead. Instead of the real truth. The truth that he has a bat of his own but it’s been made into a weapon.

“What is?” you ask.

“The metal.” He swings it again, “and it’s too light.”

“I didn’t know you had a preference – here,” you open up your bag and take out the one you brought. You offer him a wooden bat instead.

“Where’d you—”

“Typical dad gift.” you cock your head to the side, “I thought you would’ve brought your own, too.”

Steve panics for only a moment. “It broke.”

He’s worried for a moment because you look so surprised that your eyebrows nearly disappear past your hairline, “You _broke_ a wooden bat?”

He shrugs, trying for nonchalance. He realizes, belatedly, how hard it is to accomplish that. “Yeah.”

There’s an expression that passes over your features – one of doubt, but then it settles on something else. “Jesus, what were you hitting? A tree?”

Steve laughs a little, “It was just old. Broke at the handle.” He doesn’t like that the lies fall a little easier around you. Mostly, he worries it’s because you let them.

Steve is a natural with the wooden bat, and it paints a better picture of why he told you he enjoyed baseball. Where he missed most of the swings with the aluminum bat, he’s clearly used to the added weight of the wood. Every so often he twirls the bat, almost playfully, removing each hand individually to flex his fingers.

After a few more hits, he peers back at you where you sit behind the fence, “This probably isn’t much fun anymore.”

“I do have more fun when you’re missing.” you joke.

“Har har.” he flips the bat around, catching it by the handle again. He decides to take a break, coming around the protective fencing to sit next to you. You hand him a bottle of water and he takes it with a small thanks.

He wonders if he should ask – he’s been thinking about it the more you hang out together. So he chances it, looking over at you.

You smile a bit, “What?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Seems like it,” you tease and Steve shoves you a bit before you laugh. It’s quiet, and when you look over, Steve is balancing the end of the bat on the tip of his foot, looking more thoughtful than usual.

“I don’t ever remember hearing about you getting into fights when we were in high school, and I feel like I would have.” he says, looking up at you. He’s obviously choosing his words carefully because he’s speaking slowly – deliberately. 

“That’s because I didn’t fight in high school.” you say.

“Then why is it…” he laughs a little, clearly nervous for bringing it up, “That the two times we bump into each other, someone is getting beat up?”

You open your mouth to respond and Steve puts up his hands quickly to make an amendment, “Look – I _know_ why you fought Tommy, you thought he was going to punch me and that’s _fair,_ but” he shakes his head, “You really freaked me out the night of the Snow Ball, and I know you said you broke your exes nose but that sounds –” he pauses, “It just sounds so extreme for someone who doesn’t have a huge track record towards violence.”

“Before I answer,” you start, and Steve pauses, moving the bat to lean on the side of the fencing. “I’m sorry if you were ever scared of me.” you say and Steve shakes his head like he’s about to deny it but you press on. “No seriously Steve, I would get it if you were. Or _Dustin,_ god,” you close your eyes momentarily and then sigh, looking back up at him. “I’m really sorry that you had to see me like that. And I’m sorry if that scared you.”

You watch Steve’s shoulders sag in minute relief and he gives you a single nod, whether confirming his fear or reassuring you that he understands, it doesn’t really matter. Because Steve is listening now, and he cares enough about you to want to know the truth.

You look down at the gravel and kick a rock into the corner of grass peeking out of the sitting area, “My ex is your age. I met him through the tutoring program at school.” you stand up, starting to pace. He doesn’t mind, especially if it helps your nerves.

“He was failing history class at the time, and it was my best subject so…” you shrug.

“Wait a second – your ex isn’t…”

You lean against the fence and look at him. “Michael Lewenski, yeah.”

Steve has vague memories of only one person on the basketball failing history at the time. Tommy used to make fun of him ruthlessly for it. He was a total meathead who couldn’t make it off the bench. It doesn’t surprise him that he was failing history, but it surprises him that you were the one tutoring him.

“I was…” you roll your eyes, “stupidly infatuated. I ended up basically writing his papers for him, on top of my own work. I thought I was being a loving girlfriend, but he was just…” you trail off. Using you. Tossing you around and making you do whatever he wanted, dangling affection over your head like it was a goalpost and not something that should be given willingly and openly. But you hold that part tightly to your chest, unwilling to let it go. You _know_ Steve has baggage of his own, so you think it’s okay if you keep this secret a little longer.

You fast forward, “The night of the Snow Ball, I went over to give him some lessons he’d missed. He wasn’t expecting me,” you give Steve a quick glance, “He was expecting Vicki.”

“ _Shit.”_ he breathes out.

“Turns out Vicki and him had been sleeping together since Michael first asked me out. He then told me I didn’t put out fast enough so,” you gesture to nothing really, just trying to alleviate the tension in your body from revealing something so personal and degrading. You assume Steve can figure out for himself that right after Michael’s comment, you caved his face in.

Steve stands up and puts a hand to your arm in a comforting gesture, one he’s never really done with you before. “I am— _so_ sorry.” he says and you shake your head, looking down.

You laugh, a little awkwardly, “I didn’t tell anyone, Steve. You wouldn’t have known.” you sigh, crossing your arms. “To be fair, Vicki didn’t know about me either.”

Steve shakes his head, and you peer up. His eyebrows furrowed, angry and frustrated. “I didn’t think Michael had enough brain cells to pull something that underhanded.” he looks so angry, and it’s on your behalf, “You were right to break his nose.”

You smile, albeit a bit strained, “I felt awful after I did it. He was bleeding really bad and Vicki almost lost her mind she was so furious with him.” you shake your head, “That’s why I told you Carol didn’t tell Vicki to do anything – she had no idea, same as me. Obviously the two relationships were different, but still.”

Steve shakes his head, “Doesn’t matter. He was obviously using both of you from the beginning.”

You smile a bit, and then you find yourself laughing in embarrassment, “Actually one more thing – about the bike,”

Steve’s eyes widen in recognition before you continue.

“After I broke his nose I got his bike off his patio and started running down the driveway.” you laugh, a little harder, “I was wearing a stupidly long dress so I couldn’t actually pedal, but I wasn’t going to turn around and bring it back so I just…uh, walked with it. And then you found me.”

Steve shakes his head, groaning. “I mean good for you but also,” he laughs a little, “Wow.”

“The magic of adrenaline.” you say.

Steve puts his hands on his hips, “Well,” he glances out to the batting cage. “I’m pretty much done getting made fun of out here. Do you have any other ideas?” he asks.

You mull it over a minute, “How about the bowling alley?”

Steve blows out a breath, “Wow, I haven’t bowled in…a really long time. Since I was a kid.”

“You want me to tease you elsewhere?” you ask with a smile, moving to pick up your bat and put it back into your bag. Steve feels his cheeks burn, and yeah _okay_ he likes your attention. Likes when you’re so clearly enjoying yourself, even if it’s mostly at his expense.

He laughs a little, incapable of hiding his smile, “I think I’ll survive.”

* * *

Steve finishes tying the bowling shoes and stands up in front of you.

“Looking smart, Harrington.” you compliment, while sitting at the scoring desk, and he takes a small bow.

“Do you just want to practice?” he asks and you nod, standing up.

You take a bowling ball off the return machine and stand in front of the alley, knees locked and back straight.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, laughing.

You turn to him, “I’m about to kick your ass in bowling.” you quip, and he rolls his eyes.

“Not with that posture you’re not.”

You laugh, holding the bowling ball in your arms more securely. “Okay Mr. ‘hasn’t bowled since I was a kid’ come here and show me.”

He scoffs playfully, standing up and walking over to you while you return to your earlier position.

“No, like this,” he stands behind you and puts a hand on your hip, urging you to angle yourself differently. The contact takes him off guard, so surprised at how fast he’d reached out to touch you without even thinking about it.

“Uh…” Steve trails off.

“What?” you glance back at him, “I’m listening.”

Steve clears his throat momentarily, and steps a bit closer, enough that it’s definitely not an exercise in position, and perhaps more an exercise in restraint. On whose part, Steve doesn’t really know. All he knows is that it’s been long enough since he’s flirted with someone that it makes him nervous again, and he knows in his head that it isn’t smart to push the boundaries of your friendship because of the things he has to keep secret. But he also knows he’s spent an awful long time admiring the curve of your neck, the quirk of your mouth when you smile, the light behind your eyes when you tease him.

He likes you, enormously.

And the worst part of it all is that every time he steps over the invisible line he drew – the line that divides Steve before and Steve after – he can feel it fading under his feet. Even more frequently when he’s with you.

“When you start off, use both arms to wind up,” he puts his hands on your arms, gesturing for you to hold the bowling ball in front of you.

“You got it?”

“Mhm,” you smile.

“Okay, and when you wind up,” he brings one hand down to your hip, “You want to use this leg to step forward and really lean into it.”

The high of your cheeks are pink, and you dare a glance over at him, “Lean into it, got it.”

Steve can feel himself smiling, face hot with excitement over your obvious ribbing. You’re egging him on and you both know it. You’re flirting with him and it’s making it harder and harder to not reciprocate in kind.

What you’re both doing is foolish and he _knows_ it but –

“Steve?”

“Hm?”

“You’re gonna have to let me go if you want me to take my turn.” you say, voice low.

Steve realizes, belatedly, that he has both his hands on you, one near the small of your back, and the other at your wrist. He watches your face, carefully, and when your mouth purses, his eyes follow the action.

“Steve,” you repeat.

“Mm.”

“You’re in the way.” you murmur, and he blinks, suddenly so incredibly aware of how hypnotized he’d been. You laugh a little, face flushed a little darker than before.

“R-right, go ahead.” he says, turning back to sit at the score desk.

The clatter of pins gets his attention, and when he turns around, you’ve earned a strike. And you’re beaming at him, something satisfied and altogether flirtatious in your smile.

“I think I got it.”


	4. Counting seconds through the night (and got carried away)

It’s not that Steve is always expecting the worst —

Okay yeah, maybe he is. You’re good for him, so good in fact that he kind of feels like something is going to go bad. And it inevitably does, because Steve always messes things up. Things don’t go right for him. He’s got a losing streak that follows him around like a spotlight.

Like clockwork, he expects it.

And it all goes downhill in December.

He had invited you over to keep him company while his parents held a family dinner. His mom had hung mistletoe because _of course_ she had. Steve nearly had a panic attack, eyes wide like he was seriously considering bolting out the front door. But you were ever the expert, tilting his head and kissing him on the cheek – juvenile affection for a juvenile prank. You rolled your eyes at his mother, laughing it off just to appease the type of audience you were surrounded with.

But Steve was mortified. Because he’d hesitated, and you had noticed. He saw the flicker of doubt in your eyes before you had taken matters into your own hands – saving him from his parents scrutiny and humiliating comments.

He put a lot of faith in you, in a friendship that was fundamentally based on normalcy. He clings to it like it’s the only thing left. And by pretending the Upside Down doesn’t exist, his paranoia only doubles. He can’t tell you about it so it consumes him.

He calls you late at night after having nightmares about the monsters in Hawkins, the smell of the Demogorgon’s burning flesh hot on his nose. He tells you the dream was about a car crash instead.

Normal.

He tenses up whenever the streetlights flicker, taking his foot off the gas and rolling his window down to listen for the snap of twigs. He tells you he likes the breeze.

Normal.

He doesn’t let you do any of the chopping when you’re cooking dinner together after baseball practice. He’s terrified you’ll nick yourself on the blade, calling the Demogorgon back from the dead with the smell of your blood. He tells you he’d rather you keep an eye on what’s cooking on the stovetop.

Normal.

Now, you’re both at a New Year’s Eve party. Someone had invited Steve and he couldn’t bear to say no, still clinging to the idea that he’s capable of being totally ordinary. Even though the last party he attended, his heart was broken into a million pieces in a dimly lit bathroom.

You’re nursing a bottle of rosé you’ve barely touched but refuse to set down. He walks over to where you’re talking to someone and puts his hand on the small of your back.

“Doing okay?”

You peer up at him, a bit surprised by the touch. “Yeah.” you look back to the girl in front of you. “You remember Vicki Carmichael.”

The wheels turn for a moment, and then he remembers all at once.

Vicki, for her part, looks equally dour. “Hey Steve.”

“Hi Vicki.” he says back, and he’s barely looking at her, eyes trained on the side of your head. Like he can telepathically ask you if you’re okay to be talking to the girl who slept with your ex-boyfriend.

But you push up your sleeve with the back of your hand, rosé still snug in your palm, to check your watch. “Countdown’s gonna start any minute. You should find Troy.”

“Oh shoot, you’re right,” Vicki sighs, and then she reaches out and squeezes your arm, “It was good talking to you.”

“Yeah.” you smile back, and as you watch her go, you split off in the other direction, heading for the back patio. Steve follows, only certain that you’re expecting him when you turn a bit to gesture for him to come through the sliding door after you.

Once the door is closed, the noise is sealed inside. You set your wine on the ledge of the patio fencing and zip up your coat.

“What was that?”

You look over at him and shrug, “Burying the hatchet.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” you repeat, breath coming out in a thin mist around your face.

He wants to ask you how you do it. How you let go of something that hurt so deeply. But he knows it isn’t as easy as you claim it is, and you’ve been more and more guarded around him since the mistletoe incident.

“Steve I need you to be honest with me.”

“Of course.” He says, as if you both don’t already know he’s lying through his teeth.

“Do you like me?” And you look off to the side, and then back to him. “I don’t just mean as friends. I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” he interrupts. “And I do.” he admits. Even though he looks like he wishes he didn’t.

“Okay.” You say back, trying not to throw up. You should be happy, this is supposed to be a good thing. But it isn’t. Because even before all this, Steve was your friend first – and you know him well enough to know there’s something wrong. There’s always something wrong, these days.

“It’s just…” he trails off, shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket, “It’s just Nancy, y’know?”

“Yeah we both know of Nancy, Steve.” You try for levity, despite feeling like utter shit. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

The pinch in between his eyebrows lessens, like your sarcasm is better than the reaction he was expecting. Like anger.

“I’m not – I didn’t mean it like that. I-I just…” he sighs, “It’s too soon. Since the breakup.” he peers out at the woods instead of looking at you. “I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship right now.”

You swallow the nausea, the gut-wrenching feeling of not being enough. “I get it,” you say finally, leaning into his peripheral vision so he looks back at you. “But Steve we should set some boundaries.”

And from inside, the countdown for the new year starts.

He peers at you finally, “What do you mean?”

_5…_

You frown, crossing your arms over your chest, “You _know_ what I mean.” you lean your hip against the railing of the patio. “I’m all for staying friends. But you can’t keep doing what you’ve been doing.”

_4…_

“And what have I been doing?”

Your eyes widen, jaw set in challenge. Then you pull a hand up and start listing off your fingers, “Like touching my back, like taking my hand,”

_3…_

Steve’s cheeks go pink, like he knows how guilty he is, “like grabbing my waist, like holding my face, like –”

“Yeah ok I get it.”

“Do you?”

_2…_

“Yes.”

_1…_

“Great.”

And inside the house, you can hear the cacophony of your peers, shouting _Happy New Year!_

There’s a crack of party favors, every snap making Steve’s jaw set a little tighter. You grab the rosé off the ledge of the patio fencing and take a long drink.

And Steve stares straight into the woods, never once looking away.

* * *

“Okay so,” you can hear boxes of pasta being picked up and moved around. “Spaghetti or…spaghettini?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Spaghettini is slightly smaller.”

You laugh a little, “Don’t tell me they taste slightly different too.”

“Alright, I’m revoking your pasta choosing privileges.”

“Wait, no! Spaghettini—”

“Nope!”

“Steve!” you practically yell into the receiver. “SPAGHETTINI STEVE.”

“ _Jesus_ I heard you! Okay! I’ll make the spaghettini.”

“Thank you.”

“Uh huh.” you can hear the smile in his voice, “I still have to go to the store to get some other ingredients.”

“I can come with you.” you offer.

“Nah just meet me at the house. I’ll be back in like 10.”

“Roger.” you say, and hang up.

It’s warm enough to bike over to Steve’s. When you come into the driveway, his BMW is noticeably absent. You set the bike safely under the cover of the front patio while it starts to snow, and Steve comes down the street only a few minutes later. He parks and pops the trunk while you step down to meet him.

“I think that’s a new record, Harrington. You weren’t speeding were you?” you joke, skipping down to the trunk. Steve’s face changes quickly, even as you make it to the back of the car, intending to help him with the groceries. He looks _terrified_ – a fear you’ve caught glimpses of before.

“Wait—” he starts, but you’re opening the trunk before he can get a word out. And then you see it. Not the baseball bat from practice. An old gnarled wooden bat, heavy and worn with crooked nails.

Steve slams the trunk down, nearly snapping your fingers off. Every question you ever asked him suddenly answered with this well-kept secret. Steve doesn’t trust you, and worse, he’s hiding something from you.

You don’t know what kind of expression you’re wearing but Steve has completely closed off.

“I saw it.” you say first.

“I know.” he says back. Like he isn’t about to elaborate. Like it isn’t any of your business. And you’re suddenly furious.

“So I spill my guts about punching my ex in the face but you have a weapon in your trunk that you never told me about? Does that make sense to you?”

He puts his hands up, “I don’t use it on anyone.”

You scoff, “Then what’s it for?”

“It’s… _complicated.”_

Your eyes widen, astounded by his ability to avoid the question, unfurling your arms to widen them out in disbelief, “No it isn’t! You either tell the truth, or you don’t, Steve. Those are the only two options.” you jab a finger to your own chest, “Because I’m the _only_ one who comes out the other side looking like a fucking tool.”

You were always forthright about what kind of person you were. But he’s never given you any tells, because the truth is that he was never planning to. You were the one opening the doors between the two of you, but Steve never had any intention of unlocking his to begin with.

Steve’s eyes don’t leave you, he doesn’t move, doesn’t _breathe._ He can’t tell you the truth because it doesn’t sound like the truth – and more than that, he doesn’t want you to become a part of it. Doesn’t want you to be in danger. This is what he’s been afraid of, and he’s going to fight you tooth and nail to keep you out. Even when you’re standing in front of him demanding answers.

He kept two parts of his life separate for a reason. And it’s only when your face falls and something breaks in your expression, that he realizes, with horror, what he’s done. He’s put you in the same position as your ex did.

You wait for a reaction from him – for _anything_ really. But Steve just stares back, unwavering in his decision to remain silent. The rejection hits you like a truck. Steve Harrington doesn’t trust you. He never did.

And you know now that he never will.

You nod once, “…Guess that’s it then, huh?” you look down at your shoes, and then you muster up the courage to look back at him. He’s got his eyes trained on the collar of your shirt, he can’t even look in your eyes.

You shake your head and walk back to his patio to grab your bike. You jump onto the seat as the snow starts to fall in earnest and take off down the street, not once turning back to wait for Steve’s response.

And the doors you pried open by yourself are snapped closed all at once, the light at the entrance dimmed, and curtains pulled shut.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve digs the hole a little deeper.

The construction site of Starcourt Mall is all anyone has been talking about since January. There are rumors it’s going to be completed by summer – a massive shopping complex full of job opportunities for people like Steve Harrington, who has yet to receive any good news vis à vis post-secondary education.

But that’s a June problem, and it’s only March. Three months since he last spoke to you, and three months until graduation. A perfect time in his life to not only regret his past actions, but to worry about his future.

Basketball practice rubs salt in Steve’s numerous wounds. Not only does Billy Hargrove pester him about their last altercation at the Byers’ house, the coach decides to take Michael Lewenski off the bench too. As if he isn’t already thinking about how much he messed up with you, now he has to play nice with your shitty ex-boyfriend for an hour.

Steve takes a quick shower after practice and makes a bee line for his locker. It opens with a sharp metal clang, hinges squeaking uncomfortably loud in an already bustling hallway. His jaw feels rigid from tension, stress stretching up his spine like a shadow on pavement in the late afternoon.

Michael Lewenski slams into the locker next to Steve, shoulder first. Steve nearly jumps out of his skin, but grips the combination lock in his hand a little tighter instead, curling his finger through the metal loop like a weapon. It grounds him but only barely. He needs to leave, he needs to leave, he needs to _leave—_

“Steve, I know you got beef with me man, but I would appreciate a pass or two.” Michael starts. Steve turns his head enough to look at him, face impossibly dark with anger.

“Didn’t notice you were open.” Steve replies, voice abrupt and sharp.

Michael’s eyes widen, and he looks almost amused. “Dude, you don’t gotta get pissed at me. I’m just saying.”

“Say it to someone who cares, alright?” Steve is about to snap his locker shut but Michael puts his hand in the way, holding it open. He peers over at Michael, and over his shoulder, he spots you. Talking to Billy Hargrove. It’s the piss icing on top of the shit cake.

“Now wait just a minute, Harrington.” Michael interrupts.

Steve breathes hard through his nose, once, twice, but doesn’t respond.

“I know you and my ex were hangin’ out for a while there and I don’t blame you.” Michael says and Steve’s eyes move back to him. And in this moment, Steve Harrington is a single matchstick in a room of kindling.

“But she obviously didn’t do you any _favours_ and, believe me, I get it–”

Steve feels his blood boil under his skin, “What did you just say?”

Michael looks at him like he _should_ know. Like they’re buddies, like they’re pals, like it’s two guys just talking about high school girls. But Steve hasn’t felt like a kid in forever, he isn’t the same person he was last year. And your place in his life, in his heart, has been empty since you left, it couldn’t be filled by something else. It’s a nagging reminder that _he’s_ the one who pushed you away and he deserves to feel this way. It’s a hollow place in his chest, a quiet wind in a sparse forest.

But now the wind is picking up, and Steve is not just an unlit match, he is flint and steel. His anger is a spark that flares into something wild and unruly.

Steve presses down on the shackle of the combination lock until he feels the latch click closed. Then, twirling the padlock until it rests on his knuckles, rears back and punches Michael in the face. It’s a familiar feeling – a biting pain in his hand followed by a stinging recoil. The pressure radiates past his wrist and into his arm when the cheering of fellow students starts. Michael recovers from the punch and shoves him into the hard steel of the aisle, his back bruising against the edge of his locker’s door, but Steve is quicker – and much _, much_ angrier. He grips the front of Michael’s jacket and punches him again, hard enough to send him back a few steps.

Tension builds behind Steve’s ears. He realizes belatedly that he’s clenched his jaw in response – his anger held so tight to his chest it may snap him in half. Michael comes at him again, nose bloodied, and all he sees is the face you made when you left in January.

And sometimes when he’s like this, he knows he’s not just angry – he’s scared. Scared of what he’s done. Because even if he couldn’t tell you the truth, he _had_ you. You both knew it – and maybe that was the problem.

And sometimes – _sometimes_ – Steve knows he isn’t just protecting you from the monsters.

He’s protecting you from him.

You move around Billy, watching in horror as the fight breaks loose in the center of a massive crowd that only keeps growing.

Billy clicks his tongue in amusement, taking out a cigarette from his jacket pocket and putting it between his lips. “Well, well, well, seems Harrington might win this time.”

Your gaze snaps to Billy, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh he and I had a little fight at the Byers last Fall.” he smiles, “Didn’t go so well for Steve’s whole,” he gestures casually to his own face.

“So the rumors about you are true, how delightful.” you jeer. You can still remember the ghost of a scar on Steve’s lip when he picked you up the night of the Snow Ball.

“Oh and you’d be familiar with rumors, wouldn’t you?” Billy looks at you with a knowing smirk. The raucous applause of your classmates is nauseating.

You shove Billy back, cigarette nearly falling out of his mouth.

“Unless you want a broken nose too, I suggest you mind your own business.” you spit, taking a step back from him and peering back to Steve.

A teacher is coming out to corral the students away from the scene, and you don’t know what the fight was about but you have a pretty good guess. Because Steve stands over your ex-boyfriend, knuckles bloodied and hair in disarray – staring straight back at you.

* * *

Mike has everything planned to perfection. Well, _mostly._ Since closing the gate, things had been going smoothly. And then, only a few weeks later, more reports of animal attacks were coming in – and Eleven confirmed their worst suspicions. Stray adolescent demogorgons, or ‘demodogs’ as Dustin put it, who hadn’t died in the basement of the lab or in the tunnels. They were weakened and lost, attacking humans to stay fed and stay alive, still not mature enough to create portals and cross over to the Upside Down, but dangerous nonetheless. That’s where the party comes in, and the bit about the plan being _mostly_ perfect.

Because if his mom finds out he’s skipped school one more time, he’s grounded for the next foreseeable future.

“Okay,” Mike hops down the front steps of Hawkins middle school with backpack in hand. “Got all our gear, everyone ready?”

“Yup, good to go here.” Lucas tightens the straps of his backpack before heading over to the bike rack, Max putting her skateboard down on the ground next to him.

Will peers over at the edge of the high school grounds, “Hey, look at Steve.”

“What?” Dustin looks up as Will points.

“He’s over there, eating soup on a bench.”

Lucas looks over too, and his eyebrows raise in disbelief, “Alone?”

Mike sighs, already feeling the time crunch, not even looking at Steve. “Can we please just go.”

“That is so sad.” Dustin watches Steve struggle to get a noodle on his spoon, and then he turns to look at Mike, “We’re taking him with us.”

Mike throws up his hands, “Absolutely not!”

Dustin puts his hand out, gesturing to Steve, “Look at him Mike, he’s depressed for god’s sake!”

“He’s an asshole.” Mike corrects.

“I think we should get backup.” Max cuts in, as the group turns to her. “Just in case.”

“We don’t need backup, we have El.” Mike says.

Max kicks her skateboard up and rests it on her leg, “Steve saved us that night we were at the junkyard, _and_ he saved us from Billy.”

“Technically—” Mike starts but she puts her hand up to stop him.

“No, not technically, _definitely_. You just have some weird grudge against him because he dated your sister.”

All the boys watched, mouths agape.

Max looks satisfied enough, “All in favour of Steve coming along, raise your hand.”

Everyone except Mike raises their hands, and he grumbles in response.

“Okay, okay!” he grouses. “Fine.”

Steve is in the middle of trapping his biggest spoonful of noodles yet when the kids walk over to him.

He glances up, “Hi?” he says, moving his spoon towards his mouth, the noodles slipping off and back into the broth, splashing his chin. Frankly it’s about ten shades of embarrassment, too much for Mike to witness.

“You’re coming with us.” Dustin says, and Steve is still frozen in place before he drops the utensil back down into the bowl. His scabbing knuckles don’t go unnoticed by the kids.

“Coming with you where? I’m eating lunch.” he gestures to his soup.

“No, you’re being embarrassing.” Dustin corrects, “We’re going to Hopper’s to get Eleven and then we’re hunting down some demodogs.”

Steve’s mouth opens, he flounders for a moment, clearly so distraught by this information it takes a full thirty seconds to process. “I thought we got rid of them all.” he says finally. He wipes his face with his free hand. “Didn’t we get rid of them all, am I dreaming? Oh _god,_ ”

“There are only a few strays,” Will says in a rush, obviously noticing Steve’s panic, “Eleven said she can sense them.”

“They were on the surface wandering around when she closed the portal so they have no place to go back to.” Dustin finishes.

“And what am I supposed to help you with?” Steve asks miserably.

“You’re an adult, unfortunately.” Mike grumbles.

“You were at the junkyard, you’ve fought them before.” Max says.

“And we could use the help.” Lucas adds.

He looks down at his soup for a long moment, seeming to get his bearings. “Fine,”

“Good! You don’t need this anymore!” Dustin grabs his bowl and throws it to the pavement.

“Dude – I was gonna finish that!”

“Who cares about your stupid soup!” Mike hollers suddenly, “Show us where you’re parked.”

* * *

Upon arriving at Hopper’s cabin, the kids all pile out of the car like a band of clowns.

Steve empties the usual junk from his backpack onto the floor of the passenger seat and pops the trunk of his BMW, the only occupant the same as it’s always been: his bat. He sighs heavily, dread coiling in his gut as he remembers the last time he had to look at it, had to wield it. He wonders how many times he looked into the woods and there was something staring back.

Steve never got over it, not really. And now he didn’t know what was worse, the fact that he was right to be paranoid all along, or the fact that the monsters were back and you were going to find out. Maybe both; maybe it was all the same in the end.

The swing of a screen door pulls him back, and he peers back up at Hopper’s cabin. Dustin walks down the front deck and back to the car.

“We’re waiting on you.” Dustin says.

“Yeah,” He grabs the bat, shoving it into his bag before slinging it over his shoulder. When he slams the trunk closed, Dustin’s eyes are pointedly staring at his bruised knuckles.

“Are you…good?”

“Yeah I’m just…” he falters. “I’m just worried.”

“We’ll get them all.” Dustin knows well enough to read between the lines.

Steve takes in a breath and lets it out in a rush, “That’s what we said last time.”

Dustin pats him on the arm, “Let’s try to stay positive, okay buddy?”

They walk together up to Hopper’s cabin, the numerous deactivated traps in the center of the walkway doesn’t go unnoticed by Steve. He figures the only reason they aren’t armed is because Hopper knew they were coming.

It isn’t a comforting thought.

So upon entering, Steve isn’t surprised to see the Chief home, drying dishes in the kitchen.

“Harrington.” Hopper says, and Steve clears his throat before giving him a stiff nod.

“Hey Chief Hopper.”

The screen door creaks closed, and before Steve closes the wooden front door, it shuts itself. He turns back to the group and sees Eleven, quietly sitting at the table with a map spread out in front of her. She moves her gaze from the door to Steve and gives him an unreadable expression.

“Uh,” he looks to Dustin who is packing granola bars into his pack.

“Eleven, you met Steve right?”

Silence for a beat, and then, “Yes.”

“He’s gonna help us out! He was at the junkyard with us before you came back.”

Mike makes no show of objecting this time, intent only on making sure preparations for their outing are set.

Eleven’s eyes move from Steve’s face to the bat sticking out of his pack. She gets off her chair and steps over, “What’s that?”

Steve glances over his shoulder and takes hold of the bat, pulling it out and making a show of holding it properly in his hands. “It’s my bat. Helped us with the demodogs last time.”

Eleven watches him swing it momentarily, but doesn’t ask to hold it which he is eternally grateful for.

And then she nods her approval, her smile flitting across her features so fast Steve barely has time to notice, returning to her spot at the dining room table.

The plan is laid out quite easily. Hopper only acquiesces to a second group to cover more ground when Steve is put in charge. Initially it was to be led by Eleven, but Hopper’s relief is plain on his face when everyone agrees to have someone supervising over the age of 14. The party splits as: Hopper, Eleven, Mike, and Will in one. Steve, Dustin, Lucas, and Max in the other.

Hopper’s group will use Eleven’s powers and find the larger packs of monsters, while Steve’s group is to focus on lone stragglers.

“Everyone stay in your groups, I mean it. Do _not_ stray from the others even for a second.” Hopper looks pointedly at all of Steve’s group because they’re the ones he won’t be watching, and then glances up at Steve, who struggles not to wilt under Hopper’s gaze.

“And no one is to play hero. Understand?”

The kids nod, and Hopper doesn’t waver – he doesn’t look away – until Steve gives his affirmation too.


	6. How a life can move from the darkness

It’s nearly 3PM by the time the groups break off their separate ways. Thankfully the ground is dry enough that a tromp into the woods isn’t the worst way to spend his afternoon.

“It’s too bad we couldn’t round up some more people.” Dustin says, a few steps behind.

“Yeah let’s just traumatize the whole town while we’re at it.” Lucas snarks with an ax in hand. Max bites her lip to stop from smiling, her skateboard having been traded in for one of Hopper’s hunting knives.

“No, guys. We’re _seriously_ understaffed. No offence.” Dustin pointedly looks at Steve who only shrugs in reply.

“You’re not wrong,” his feet crunch in the leaves hidden under a thin dusting of snow, “but you also don’t have to remind us.”

“Yeesh, tough crowd.”

“What? It’s true.” Steve looks over at Dustin, “and you don’t say ‘tough crowd’ when it isn’t a joke.”

“No you can say it outside of a joke…”

And the conversation continues on while the sun begins to set. Hopper checks in every half hour by radio, their group having managed to find three packs. Steve’s thankful his group is the least eventful of the two.

While he was content to let the kids’ voices remain distant, everything comes back at full volume like a gunshot. Steve focuses downward, eyes glued on the prints in the snow, eerily familiar to what he’s seen before. At the junkyard, he managed to avoid being bitten in half by the demodogs. But their impression wasn’t just left in his head, because Steve remembers their prints in the mud. He remembers their shape exactly.

“Shut up.” Steve says suddenly.

“What?” the kids all ask in unison, but they stop walking and they don’t speak.

“I said shut up.” Steve repeats, not bothering to glance at the kids. He reaches up and grabs the middle section of his bat, tugging it out of his bag and into his hands. It’s a terrible instinct that he’s acquired. Things come back that Steve doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t have a choice. It was different when he was musing the monster’s existence, but now he’s mere steps away.

“Dustin.” Steve says, his blood running cold as his eyes trail further and further down the line, more and more tracks. They’re walking into a slope, the kids further up the incline behind him.

“Yeah?” Dustin murmurs back.

“Tell Hopper.” Steve swallows, feet suddenly leaden in fear. “Code red.”

And finally, the nightmares he’s been having all this time solidify in front of him. A demodog steps out from between two birch trees, snarling and clicking. Its movements are stilted, obviously weaker than the ones he fought in the junkyard. But there’s something about its state that makes it even more unpredictable. Steve feels a cold chill run up his spine, goosebumps running down his arms, and a numbness into his hands.

“Hopper, come in –” Dustin is calling into the radio, but all that comes back is static. “Hopper, I repeat – Chief Hopper come in.”

More static.

“We’re too far out, and we’re on a hill, they can’t hear us.” Lucas says, wielding his axe in front of him. Max steels herself, the shaking in her wrist nearly gone as she grips the hunting knife.

“Retrace our steps, go back down the path and radio Hopper.” Steve says, his eyes remaining on the demodog, taking measured steps back as the monster steps forward.

“But what if we’re surrounded?”

“There hasn’t been tracks for miles, they only start here.” Steve’s eyes flicker down, “We must be near one of their foxholes.”

The demodog’s mouth opens a fraction, letting out a low hiss.

“Oh, was I right then?” Steve smarms. He tests the bat’s grip in his hand, swinging it like a pendulum and grabbing the demodog’s attention. “Go back and keep testing the radio. I’ll distract it.”

“Didn’t you hear what Hopper said? No one’s being a hero.” Dustin says.

“Yeah? Well we’ll all be dead heroes if you don’t get that radio working.” he snaps back, admittedly meaner than he intends to be. But he’s worried for the kid’s safety more than his own. And he knows he can take a demodog – he _knows._

“Everyone start backtracking. When I’m done with this guy I’ll follow you, I promise.”

“We’re not leaving! We can wait!” Max shouts.

“No you can’t!” Steve shoots back, “The sooner you get walking, the sooner we can get the others here to help. So _stop_ arguing!”  
Lucas is the first to take action, nodding once before grabbing Max’s hand and catching up with Dustin who was the furthest behind in the party. The demodog peers around Steve but he only swings the bat again, stepping a bit closer.

“Hey hey buddy, look at me.” he taunts, and the demodog’s mouth blooms open, teeth sharp and still bloodied from its last meal. “That’s right, get mad.” he says, grip on his bat so strong it feels as if it may splinter.

The demodog closes its mouth and charges, but Steve is light on his feet, already preparing a swing to knock it back against the trees. It screeches when the bat makes contact, flesh ripping off the nails and Steve’s teeth grind together, fixated entirely on how the hit connects down the bat and into his palms. And every time he uses the bat it feels like the first. It all feels the same.

He’s in the Byer’s house again, swinging the spiked bat against the demogorgon’s chest.

He’s in the junkyard, barely making it over the hood of a car before he kneels into the motion and sends a demodog flying. 

He’s in the batting cage with you, swinging a wooden bat and remembering everything twice over, desperately stuffing the memories away before you catch sight of his expression.

Steve stands over the demodog, lying on its side and incapable of getting up. He swings down, and hits it in the head a final time. When it goes motionless, Steve heaves out a breath, the noise stuttering out of him like a winded accordion.

And then he hears another snarl to his right, and his lungs feel like they’re being stepped on. Another demodog comes out from behind the dead brush, nearly identical to the one dead at Steve’s feet. He used to be good at this, he used to do it without thinking. But the trauma he’s built up and never let out is making him come apart at the seams. He trips over the dead demodog’s legs, falling to the ground. He scrambles back a step, reaching for his bat, but he isn’t as fast.

And he’s afraid.

Something comes down to the demodog’s left and swings, hitting it so hard in the face that it careens away from Steve with a yelp and hits a tree.

And then he sees you, boots sliding down in the snow and the leaves of the incline. You come into view, and it’s a beautiful sight to behold.

You pull your baseball bat back from the swing, resting it on your shoulder, and then you brush your hair from your eyes. You’re wearing a hoodie and a denim jacket, but the collar is caked in blood. And there are bits of your hair plastered to your forehead from the sweat and the exertion.

“Hey.” Steve says, momentarily mesmerized by your sudden return in his life.

“Hi Steve.” your chest heaves from your powerful swing, but your voice sounds like a song to him right now.

And then Steve remembers himself, remembers the awful reality of the situation you’re both in, “Wait why are you—you can’t, oh god.” he holds his head, and then looks back up at you, “What the hell are you doing here?”

You sigh, “Steve Harrington skipping afternoon classes to go hang out with a bunch of 14 year olds?” your expression turns nervous as you pointedly look away from him, “Just because I don’t talk to you doesn’t mean I don’t worry about you.”

And Steve is so taken aback by your admission – an unselfish affection that makes the tips of his ears burn and his heart ache – that he nearly forgets everything else.

You’re interrupted by more growling, and Steve scrambles to his feet, grabbing his bat again. You angle yourself so you’re back to back with Steve, adjusting your grip on your own bat, trying to pick up where the noises are coming from.

“I think I have two,” Steve says.

“I’ve got three.” you reply, and there’s a long pause.

“I can take another – ”

“Doesn’t matter, they’re coming.” you lean into Steve just enough to bump into his back and give yourself a sense of where he is before the fight starts. And just like that, the feeling that something’s been digging into his chest is lifted. He feels his lungs ease up, his breathing fall in line with his body’s movement. You take two steps forward and swing at an incoming demodog, who yelps and falls on its side. Steve twirls his bat, taunting another one of them to charge him. When it starts running, Steve counts the tempo of its steps, ticking down the seconds before the ideal swing comes into view. How he feels about fighting won’t ever feel _right,_ but you being here next to him – it makes it easier.

You’re watching another demodog pace just at the edge of the clearing, waiting for the opportune moment to catch you off guard. And then Steve speaks, unable to keep up the silence any longer.

“So I uh, I just wanted to say,” he stops talking for a moment and there’s the whipping of wind to your right followed by the sound of something hard hitting flesh, and then another monstrous yip. “I’m really sorry for what I said, or _didn’t_ say I guess—”

You’re still watching the pacing demodog, not taking your eyes off it while you reply, “Steve this isn’t a great time.”

“Now is the perfect time! I need to tell you this right now!” he kicks one that gets too close and you hit it over the head with your bat. “Ever since the first monster, I’ve been afraid. I’ve been paranoid and scared it would come back. I never once opened up to you about this because I didn’t want you to get involved, to get _hurt_ ,” he rambles on, his hair windswept in mismatched directions, “But I…I don’t think I can do this without you,” he turns a fraction to hit another monster, “and I don’t _want_ to do this without you,”

“Steve—”

“Being with you – it makes me so…incredibly happy. Happier than I deserve. And it’s been so long since I’ve felt that way and I—”

“Get down!” you yell.

“AndI’minlovewithyou!” Steve rushes out before he drops his weight to the forest floor.

You swing and hit the demodog that’s been pacing the field, waiting for its opportunity. It screeches when your bat connects, the sound of cracking bone and flesh, before it ricochets across the field. You breathe hard, eyes wide, and you look down at Steve.

“You haven’t talked to me in _three months_ and that’s what you settle on?” you ask.

Steve swallows hard, he knows he messed up and he doesn’t know what to say. By default, he settles on nothing, still crouched in the leaves.

“You could’ve called.” you say first, and there’s a hint of a smile playing behind your eyes. Even when he’s the one at fault, you still offer out that olive branch.

His cheeks turn pink and he stands up, “I—didn’t know how.”

You push him and he stumbles back, “It’s called a telephone.” you step back from him and start walking out of the bottom of the slope.

“I _know_ I just,” he catches his balance and then jogs up the hill after you, returning to the flatter part of the trail. When you turn to face him, he nervously runs a hand through his hair, “I had so much to say and I didn’t know how to say it.”

Your eyebrow ticks in annoyance and you shove him again. He falls on his ass in the dead leaves, and looks up at you like he’s given up.

“Okay, fair enough.” he grumbles, getting to his knees and then back on his feet. He dusts his jeans off, and then goes to turn toward you again.

You’re closer than he anticipated, your free arm coming up to the nape of his neck, standing on the tips of your toes to reach him. Your mouth is soft, uncertain against his, and Steve barely has time to register the kiss, let alone reciprocate it before you’re falling back onto your heels. Steve’s eyes are wide in surprise, and you stare back at him, waiting for a response.

You must both decide at the same time, because Steve’s arms wrap around you all at once, keeping you balanced as you rise up on the balls of your feet to meet him again. The second kiss isn’t careful. It’s much more eager, lips warm and greedy for the time you’ve both wasted skirting around each other like kids, pretending the truth was only circumstance. Your bat drops from your hand, a soft thunk amidst the leaves, and your fingers tease through his hair all while Steve crushes you closer. His pulse comes in hard and fast against the fluttering of your palms. He elicits a soft noise from the back of his throat when your tongue brushes his own – grip on you so strong it leaves you breathless. When you pull away, Steve looks at you like he’s got the stars in his hands.

“So does that mean…” he trails off, barely an inch from your mouth, “You’ve maybe got a bit of a crush on me too…”

“Steve,” you murmur.

“Mhm?” he brushes his nose with yours, just as hushed.

“I love you too.” you say, and you search his eyes for that hesitation. But he’s been without you for too long, and you know the truth. The _whole_ truth – the one he was trying to protect you from.

So he smiles – a little worn at the edges, for a time of teenage bliss cut short, but earnest and bright all the same.

“Well, good.” he presses his forehead to yours, voice rough and relieved. You put your hand to his cheek, thumb soothing across his skin. He’s incapable of resisting, leaning down to kiss you again, however briefly. 

“Steve!” you both hear someone shouting from down the trail, and you turn in Steve’s hold to peer out at the people in the distance. You pick up your bat and Steve takes your free hand in his like he’s been doing it for years, like you haven’t been away from one another for months. Like he’ll keep taking it forever.

The two of you walk toward the kids, and when you meet in the middle, Dustin’s eyebrows scrunch together.

“Wait a minute, I know you.” he says.

“Nice to see you Dustin,” you give a little wave and then the light clicks on, Dustin looking at Steve.

“That’s—” he points at you, and then points at his nose. Max and Lucas both follow the motion, and then look back to Steve.

Steve nods vigorously, leaning a bit closer to you and smiling like he’s got something to be proud of. Like he’s proud of you.

Dustin cheers, “Awesome!”

* * *

When the party regroups, with you as an addition, Eleven and Will are both able to confirm the demodogs are gone. There will be cleanups to complete and explanations to be given, but for now it’s done.

For now, Steve can breathe easy.

It’s midnight by the time you finish up in Hopper’s cabin. You close the trunk of Steve’s car and glance over at him.

“You alright?” you ask, tugging on his sleeve in question.

His arms come around you and he folds in, exhausted and so relieved. You sigh in relief, even after months apart it feels like second nature to be near him again.

You pull away enough to see his face and Steve pushes his forehead against yours.

“I missed you.” he says finally, voice tight and hesitant.

“Steve,” you murmur, leaning back just enough to angle your face and kiss his cheek. “I missed you too,” your lips brush against his skin. He takes your hands in his and kisses your knuckles. “I’ll stay over tonight, we can talk, okay?”

He nods, bowing his head down. You kiss his eyebrow, holding him steady when he looks as if he might break. When he’s ready, you both get in the car and drive back into town.

When you get back to Steve’s house, he opens up the closet upstairs and pulls down some extra blankets, bringing them into his bedroom and spreading them out at the foot of the bed.

You look at him, a question on your lips, and he smiles a bit nervously.

“After the first monster, I couldn’t sleep without a heavy blanket on top of me. I kept waking up, thinking I’d be dragged into the forest.” he trails off, looking up at you. “It sounds stupid now.”

“It does not.” you counter, touching his arm. Frowning, you touch his cheek. “You’re cold, where are your sweaters?”

He nods his head to his dresser, “Bottom shelf.”

You pull open the drawer and rummage around, and then you pause. Fingers find purchase on a familiar material, a heavy-duty cotton blue jacket. You tug it out of the drawer and unfold it, eyes catching on a faded blood stain on the left sleeve. Your blood. You grab a hoodie out of the drawer too, and then shut it with your foot.

When you walk back to Steve, he’s spreading some of the blankets out for sleep. He turns to face you, eyes widening a fraction when he sees what you’re holding.

“That’s—” he stutters, ears going pink. “I did try to wash it, it’s just – blood is really hard to get out.”

You laugh a little, “I know. I’m just touched you’d keep it even though it’s kind of ruined.”

Steve’s expression goes a bit more serious, a bit softer. “Of course I’d keep it.”

Your chest feels _full_ here. You don’t think Steve realizes what a momentous thing he’s just admitted, but it means so much to you that he thinks the jacket is worth keeping. That the memory of you defending him is important enough to keep such a simple memento. You turn to put the jacket away but Steve touches your arm, urging you to face him.

“I’ve been…” Steve closes his eyes, “such a dick to you.” he says.

You step a bit closer, brushing a hand across his cheek, and then you touch the back of your fingers to his chin, “Steve. I know why you didn’t tell me the truth.”

“I could’ve…” he frowns, “I could’ve done something else – anything else, but I hurt you and—” you cut him off with a kiss, gentle and new. He sighs against your mouth, hands winding around you and pulling you close enough that your heart flutters against your ribcage.

When you part, you take hold of his arm and urge him to show you his hand, knuckles still bruised from his fight with your ex-boyfriend.

“We protect each other.” you say, and look up. “Right?”

He nods, “We do.” he says, but no words ever seem like they’re enough for how much he loves you. How much you mean to him. Even if you know about the monsters, he needs to be honest in all things.

“What I said at the party,” he hesitates, and looks at you “It wasn’t too soon…” he admits.

You smile softly, “I know.”

“And I want to be with you this time.” he says, “I want you to be my girlfriend.” he seems to amend his statement when he blurts, “If you’ll have me, I mean.”

Your smile get a bit brighter, still just as warm and sincere, “If that’s the case,” you lift his right hand and kiss his bruised knuckles, “Steve Harrington, I’m too comfortable in your arms right now to get down on one knee, but will you be my boyfriend?”

Steve laughs, letting you kiss his hand before he winds his arms around you again, “Yes.” he kisses you between smiles, “Yes.”


	7. epilogue

“Steve, I told you I’m fine.” you grouse, coming through the front door of your apartment, with Steve on your tail.

“No you’re not.” he admonishes lightly, politely tugging off your jacket and hanging it up, not bothering with his own, “Come on, let’s take a look at your face.” he starts guiding you to sit down on the sofa.

“Not your best pick up line but I’m still with you.” you tease.

Steve rolls his eyes, but when he finally smiles at you, it’s incredibly tender, “Why don’t you save the jokes until after I finish cleaning up your bloody nose and knuckles, hm?”

You sigh, letting him lead you over to the couch, where you sit down. He makes a motion for you to stay put and nearly runs to the bathroom to get your first aid kit.

“Hey, we’re not missing anything right?” he shouts from the bathroom. He emerges a moment later, with the kit open in his arms and a washcloth in hand.

“Nope, restocked everything after last time.”

“Last time, right.” he sits next to you on the couch. He rummages around the kit and then lays out the supplies he needs on the coffee table, snapping the case shut. Steve stays focused on his task, fingers delicately separating the layers of woven gauze. But you’re not watching his hands, you’re watching his face. The line between his brows gets deeper the further he concentrates at his task. His tongue darts out between his lips, and then retreats so that he can bite at his bottom lip.

“Got it, here,” he doesn’t look at your face, eyes downcast and focused on your bloodied knuckles. You hold out your hand to him and he rests it on his jean-clad knee. Leaning over to the coffee table, he tears open the small packet holding a disinfectant wipe.

“This’ll hurt a bit, okay?” he says, glancing up at you in confirmation. You give him a small smile and then give a noise of affirmation before he goes to work.

Steve is gentle, calloused fingers barely touching your skin. His eyelashes are dark and long at this angle – the light of the living room casts a feathered shadow on his cheeks. Steve Harrington is the gentlest person you’ve ever met. Despite the hardship, despite circumstance. He’s nothing but good. You only realize he’s done cleaning your knuckles when he moves his head back up to look at you again.

You lift your free hand and brush your fingers across his cheek, moving your touch down to his bottom lip, where only a light scar remains.

“Hey,” he murmurs, hand taking your own, “Where’d you go?”

The actual question is left unsaid. The two of you have been through enough that some memories are simply painful. What you’ve lost hurts. What you could lose hurts even more.

“I don’t know,” you say truthfully. Because it’s all of it at once. You wish you had a straight answer. “Sorry,” you smile a little, even though it hurts. It hurts a lot today, in particular.

He lifts your hand off his knee, taking it in his own and looking at your fingers. “What was it you said to me?” he peers up at you, his hair falling into his face. You reach out automatically, using your other hand to brush his hair back from his eyes and he smiles a bit bigger. The gentleness in his eyes remains, it always does when he looks at you.

“We protect each other.” he says.

You bite your lip, avoiding his gaze. Vulnerability has always been more difficult for you to ease into than it has been for him. You think plenty about Steve Harrington, but voicing it to him so suddenly after joking around is sometimes so jarring your mind goes blank. You love him and sometimes it’s hard to describe the depths of what it means to you. What he means to you.

Your voice wavers more than you expect when you finally find it, “You’re mistaken, only a sap would say something like that.” You say, eyes on your own bruised knuckles, on the way his thumb rhythmically passes over each of your fingers, taking care not to touch where your skin is most tender.

“Hmm, maybe it’ll come back to you while I so dutifully nurse you back to health.” Steve jokes, putting your hand back on his knee so he can free up both of his own. He takes the roll of gauze off the table and wraps your knuckles carefully, cutting a piece of medical tape and adhering it to both ends of your dressing.

You lean forward and bump your forehead against Steve’s, even while he clasps your injured hand in both of his – even as he looks like he wishes you weren’t hurt at all.

“I love you.” you say, and Steve laughs softly, weakly. He finally glances up and you lean a bit closer, smiling when he understands your body language with barely a hint at all. He touches your cheek and kisses you, despite your bloody nose and bruised cheek.

Steve pulls back enough to speak, “You look awful.” and there’s no edge behind his words, too enamoured by being this close to even try.

“Still kissed me though.”

“It’s impossible not to.”

“Mm,” you smile into the next kiss, and it tastes a bit like metal but neither of you mind. You’ve kissed away bigger injuries.

It gets a bit more heated than intended, and Steve reluctantly pulls back first. “Babe, okay,” you lean forward and catch his mouth in another kiss and he melts into it before he can catch himself. He laughs, “Sweetheart, love of my life, please let me clean your face –”

“Honey, love of my life, I feel fine.” you counter.

“I’m not falling for your tricks, _or_ your tongue, so knock it off.”

You grumble, but acquiesce as Steve tilts your chin up and cleans the blood from your nose with a warm washcloth. When you’re sufficiently cleaned up, Steve nods once.

“Am I good to go doc?” you tease.

“Hm,” he takes your face in both his hands and kisses you warmly, mouth moving deliberately, slowly, against yours. He smiles, “I think we’ll have to keep you for overnight monitoring.”

“Dr. Steve – _you_ and _me_?” your eyes widen, “But there’s only one bed.”

Steve has to lean back to laugh, letting his hands fall away as he catches himself before he topples over. You follow after him, crawling up and on top of him, and Steve’s hands follow you endlessly. Palms land warm at the small of your back, even as he still giggles.

“We’ll have to make do.” he murmurs. You kiss him again, bandaged and clean, and Steve only smiles bigger. Both of you with hearts achingly full.


End file.
